


call me.

by starknight



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Body Swap, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff and Smut, Mutual Masturbation, Other, Phone Sex, Podfic Welcome, Smut, Table Sex, Top Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-18 18:40:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20317657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starknight/pseuds/starknight
Summary: Not for the first time, Aziraphale tells himself to stop. He should go back to the tea - he’d have to make it again now, he’s been staring at Crowley’s reflection for too long - and settle down for a long quiet reading session.Perfect.Instead, Aziraphale sticks two of Crowley’s fingers into his mouth and moans at the sight.In which an angel and a demon swap bodies, and possibly enjoy themselves a little too much.





	call me.

**Author's Note:**

> \- In the phone section, italics is Crowley POV, normal text is Aziraphale. We needed both. ;)  
\- The daddy-I've-been-naughty joke is not mine, so, thanks to whichever lovely soul came up with that gem.  
\- Yes I used baby it's cold outside lyrics don't @ me like this  
\- THANK YOU to [ sleepdrunk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepdrunk/pseuds/sleepdrunk) for beta'ing
> 
> come yell at my tumblr @ gay-star-knight

Aziraphale has been to Crowley's apartment before, of course. Obviously.

It still feels wrong to be going in without him now.

The key works - thank God - and Aziraphale is inside. He goes first to the plants. They deserve some love and attention, some murmurs of encouragement, maybe even some little compliments.

"You're positively glowing, Gloria - not to mention your glossy lamina, Juanpa, you delightful fiend - and Sarah! I've never seen such a sprightly little sapling, how are you enjoying your new home?" It takes a while to get through them all, and Aziraphale has to hastily invent some new names for the ones he forgets, but he feels at peace once he's finished. He knows Crowley would probably like him to be stricter, but he thinks they could do with a little cherishing. Just a taste.

Once he’s finished buttering up the plants, Aziraphale goes to put on some tea, and promptly drops the kettle when his hand - Crowley's hand - is the one to pick it up. He gives himself a little shake and miracles the kettle back together, taking the time to inspect his - Crowley's - fingers before putting it back on the stove. 

It really is an odd sensation, being outside of one's usual corporation. Crowley is so angular. Aziraphale lets a hand run over his hip, feeling how taut the skin stretches, how the bone juts out. It's sort of awkward, actually. Crowley always makes his body look so effortlessly cool. Aziraphale frowns down at himself (Crowley's self) and wonders if he could get the knack of it.

He goes to Crowley's bedroom, wondering if - and of course there are. Full length mirrors make up all of the sliding wardrobe doors. He imagines Crowley’s strut being rehearsed in front of them.

Aziraphale lets out a little shriek when he sees Crowley in the mirror, and then rolls his eyes at himself. Now, those are interesting - the eyes.

He walks right up to the mirror and stops an inch away from it.

Aziraphale has never been able to look as long as he would like at these eyes. Now he drinks his fill, wiping away the fog that builds up when he can't help but take ragged breaths, and lets his face soften. He closes his eyes and summons his love for the world. For Crowley. Opens.

Crowley's eyes are so tender that Aziraphale has to look away. He lets out a sigh and claps his hand over his mouth as soon as it gets out - Crowley's voicebox is so strange, it makes what would be an inaudible little rush of air into a positively lovesick sound.

_ What I wouldn't do to hear it for real _ , he thinks, and sighs again.  _ Oh... _

He groans at himself. Freezes at the sound. Grits his teeth, and looks at Crowley's beet-red face in the mirror.

"What a mess," he says. Crowley grins back at him, and he blushes more. "I am_ so_ screwed."

\---

Crowley - the real one - isn't faring much better. Actually, he's doing considerably worse. For one, Aziraphale doesn't own a bed. And the only mirror in the poky little flat is about the pokiest and littlest thing Crowley has ever seen. Those ones on the backs of hair brushes were probably bigger. Honestly.

Still - Crowley has made do with far worse before (back in the Garden, there were only puddles), so he’s managing just fine. Well. He’s managing the mirror part. Aziraphale’s body, he is  _ not _ managing.

“Crowley,” he says in Aziraphale’s voice. “Cro-ooh-ley.” He can’t get the  _ oooh _ right. Aziraphale has such a particular way of saying his name. “Foul fiend,” he says at the mirror, and then giggles.  _ Giggles. _ Crowley’s usual corporation is indisposed to giggling, preferring to yell  _ HA _ at inopportune moments. He lets Aziraphale’s face twitch into a smile.

Hmmm.

It’s not quite the same, though, is it? Aziraphale’s true smiles have something else about them entirely. The joy of the sun, the peace of the moon, the pull of a thousand tides. Crowley can’t quite get it right.

“Crowley,” he says again. “Crowley, I lo-...”

Is it wrong to say it? To hear it? It must be some kind of betrayal, but there’s not enough words in the world to describe this very unique and bizarre situation. 

_ To Hell with it, _ he thinks.  _ It’s not like he’s ever going to say it to you. It’s not like you’ll ever have a better opportunity. _

“I love you, Crowley,” he says before he can think better of it. The words are heavy on his tongue but the sound rings lighter than air. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, Crowley. I love you.”

He feels the familiar fissure in his heart starting to creak and ache. He decides humour is the best way to avoid it, and sticks his tongue out.

Of course, he’s forgotten that it’s Aziraphale’s tongue. Aziraphale’s tongue is not funny. Aziraphale’s tongue is  _ sexy. _

“Fuuuuck,” he moans, somewhat muffled around the angel’s tongue, and immediately feels bad for sullying Aziraphale’s mouth with such profanity. But how is he supposed to resist, when Aziraphale’s tongue is so  _ pink _ and  _ wet _ and -

\---

So beautiful. Crowley’s tongue is so elegant. Delicate. Graceful. Poised. Aziraphale accidentally bites down on it when it splits into two at the end.

“Bugger!” he yelps, raising his hand to his mouth as if it might help. “Oooh, no, ouchies…” Aziraphale immediately commits the sound of Crowley’s voice saying  _ ouchies _ to memory.

Tentatively, he sticks his (Crowley’s) tongue out again. It should be strange, the way it splits down the middle, and it is a little but Aziraphale has never let  _ strange _ stop him before and he’ll be damned if he’ll let it now. He lets the hand still hovering near his mouth reach for the tongue, and shivers at the sensation of it rasping over his (Crowley’s) skin.

Not for the first time, Aziraphale tells himself to stop. He should go back to the tea - he’d have to make it again now, he’s been staring at his reflection for too long - and find one of the books he’d forcibly lent Crowley and settle down for a long quiet reading session.

Perfect.

Instead, Aziraphale sticks two of Crowley’s fingers into his mouth and moans at the sight. He squeezes his eyes shut and licks at the fingers. They are hot and heavy against Crowley’s tongue and he lets them go just a little too far in, just enough to force a quiet choking sound from Crowley’s throat.

“Mmmmmf,” he moans, and pushes his fingers in again. He needs - he needs to set down some rules. Boundaries. There have to be boundaries, don’t there? Or else he’ll… He’ll… 

Alright. Boundaries.

“Rule number one,” Crowley’s reflection says, and then stops.  _ No undressing? _ That seems like an important baseline. “No undressing.” 

The words have about as much conviction as the crêpes Aziraphale tried to make in the 19th century*. 

* He’d only had to attempt them himself because Crowley had made him promise not to take impromptu jaunts to Paris (even after the revolution!), and had promptly fallen asleep for most of the century. It had been a very sad and mostly crêpeless time.

He can’t sleep in this getup, though, stiff blazer, that grey-tie-thing Crowley thinks looks so stylish (he pulls it off, Aziraphale admits grudgingly), belt and trousers and shoes and socks. They really do have to come off. 

No time like the present.

\---

Crowley had never really thought about having any more weight on his body than was strictly necessary to meet a minimum healthy BMI. There just wasn’t any point to it - taking up extra space, extra matter. 

Aziraphale’s body feels heavy on him. Heavy, but comfortable somehow. Like sinking into an old leather armchair, with all the extra padding you could want, and those built-in controls for the headrest and the footrest and the backrest and all the other rests. Aziraphale’s body is heavy in the way that Crowley has always wanted to be pinned down.

He tries not to think about exploring this body from outside it, because it won’t do anything, it can’t achieve anything at all, and yet -  _ Aziraphale pins Crowley to the bed, and he can’t breathe. Aziraphale’s leg between his, oh, he’ll take care of you. His mouth on yours, his mouth on you -  _ Crowley whines and the sound escaping Aziraphale’s lips is the only thing he ever needs to hear.

He seizes the angel’s bowtie and  _ rips _ . 

The image could sustain him well into the fiftieth century, Crowley thinks. Aziraphale’s eyelids low with longing, his lips drawn back into an almost feral expression, that stupid bowtie hanging in shreds… 

Shreds… Wait.  _ No. Nononononono -  _ “Fuck,” he snarls, holding up what’s left of the angel’s favourite garment. He’s only worn it, what, every day this decade? “Oh, Someone help me…”

He could miracle it, he supposes. Or buy him a new one. Or buy him lots of new ones to choose from. But what sort of excuse can he possibly give for that?  _ I was eating lots of, you know, food, like I do, and your neck got too big and it just ripped. _ Useless. Utterly useless.  _ I was just thinking about things, right - evil, demony things, and the bowtie shredded beneath the weight of pure evil. _ Crowley sighed in disgust.

“I was thinking about things, angel,” he murmurs, the low hum of Aziraphale’s voice continuing to awaken something deep within him. “Things like you wouldn’t imagine… You  _ couldn’t  _ imagine. I’ll rip more of them off you, if you like,” Aziraphale’s voice purrs like Crowley’s has never quite got the hang of, “and miracle them back together for you to tie me up and fuck me to oblivion.”

_ If Aziraphale could hear me now, he’d probably never speak to me again. _

\---

Aziraphale runs a hand down Crowley’s bare arm and shivers. Crowley’s hands are so beautiful; long and lean and delicate. He’s hung Crowley’s jacket up carefully and stowed his shoes neatly by the door. Now he attends to that rope-tie-thing Crowley so enjoys, lifting it over his head carefully and hanging it on a convenient hook in the wardrobe. The waistcoat is next. Crowley does wear it awfully tight, and it’s a bit of a mission to get the buttons off, but Aziraphale manages. 

This is slower, somehow, more thought out and planned than what he was doing before, and as a result he feels both terribly guilty and thrilled. The hairs on the back of Crowley’s neck are standing up, and his hands are shaking slightly. Lord save him, but Crowley is so beautiful. He’s enchanting, the wave of his hair bobbing around as Aziraphale fumbles with the jeans. 

He’s never actually worn pants with a zipper before. They are tight, so tight, and he has to shimmy his way out of them quite carefully. The thought of Crowley doing this each morning fills him with to the brim with fondness, imagining the demon hopping around frantically, trying to cover that beautiful ass up, late to a date - well, a meeting - with his angel.

The jeans come off, and then Aziraphale is looking at Crowley like he hasn’t seen him since the days of Rome and naked wine-making. Just the loose undershirt, and - good Lord, the tiniest and laciest thong Aziraphale has ever seen. He chokes on air, turns around to inspect the behind coverage in the mirror. There is really very little left to the imagination.

Crowley’s ass is nothing short of perfect. Aziraphale lets a hand ghost reverently over the tight swell of his buttocks. He pushes a finger down the middle, brushing against the soft silk thread, and moans. Moans more at Crowley’s moaning, and then it’s just an eternal feedback loop. 

Aziraphale tugs off Crowley’s shirt frantically, devouring Crowley’s body with his eyes, and then his hands, and wishes he could get his mouth on it properly. The whites of Crowley’s eyes have disappeared now. Aziraphale has seen this happen before, just a few times, but he never knew it meant arousal.  _ But that means… _ It could be something else entirely, of course. It didn’t mean that every time the whites had disappeared, Crowley had been… turned on. No*.

* In fact, if Aziraphale had been in any state to check his internal documentation of Times Crowley’s Eyes Were Like This, he would have found damning evidence: the first in Rome, beneath an oil lamp, when Aziraphale was drunk and had nuzzled into Crowley’s neck quite happily; the second in a public bath in Victorian London, one of the few times Crowley had awoken that century; the third, when Crowley had pinned Aziraphale up against the wall of the convent-turned-paintball-centre.

However, Crowley’s body is, as of right now, turned on. 

This fact is confirmed to Aziraphale as he feels blood rush southward rather quickly, and he squeaks in what must be the most un-Crowley sound ever to pass through Crowley’s lips. Aziraphale backs towards the bed until it hits the backs of Crowley’s knees and sits down. He realizes distantly that he is panting, and also that Crowley’s calves might be the most gorgeous artwork he has ever seen. 

Aziraphale never touches the masterpieces if he can help it, but this time he can’t, and Crowley’s hand drags over his leg. He can feel the corded muscle beneath, wiry and lean and perfect. He whines and pushes on Crowley’s thighs, forcing his legs apart. He can barely keep his eyes open, and they flutter too much for him to get a proper look at his bulge but Aziraphale lets his hand run up his thigh, up, up, and he’s leaking already, damp through the fabric -

The phone rings.

\---

“Aziraphale?” Crowley says in what he hopes is an impression of a very normal voice.

The receiver is silent for a couple of seconds, then an inarticulate mumble sounds.

“Are you there, Aziraphale?” Crowley had forgotten they have people after them. Aziraphale could be - he could have been  _ taken _ .

“Yes,” comes the answer. It’s fucking weird hearing his voice outside of himself, and he’s not entirely sure he likes it. “Yes, I, um, yes. Crowley.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley repeats, uncertainly.

“Oh, that’s strange, isn’t it? The voices.”

“Yeah,” Crowley agrees. “Look, I wanted to - um. Check up. Nothing yet?”  _ Stop myself from violating your body. _

“Nothing yet.”

“What have you been doing?”

An awkward chuckle spits down the phone. Spits, because Crowley’s body has not been designed for  _ chuckling _ and Aziraphale should know better. “Oh, um… Not much. You?”

Crowley thinks about the clothes he’d miracled onto Aziraphale. The sweet village girl dresses. The lingerie. “I… Well. I have a confession to make.”

“Oh?” Crowley honestly didn’t know his voice could stretch to that high pitch. He wonders if his corporation will feel different tomorrow, after Aziraphale has lived in it for a day. He hopes it does. “Yes, Crowley?”

“Oh, um, well. I’m very sorry, Daddy, for I have been naughty…” He hears spluttering from the receiver and grins. 

“You  _ know _ it’s  _ forgive me father for -” _

“I have sinned, though, Aziraphale,” Crowley interrupts. “I’ve - well - your body - it’s - well - gosh -”  _ why the fuck did this body say gosh on autopilot,  _ “- I’ve been - um. Not - not anything really, really bad, or anything, just, ah, well, I thought you’d look nice in some - some - different clothes.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale. Crowley clutches at the old-fashioned receiver as hard as he could without the plastic cracking. “And did I?”

“What?”

“Look nice?” Aziraphale’s voice - Crowley’s voice, that is - has dropped lower now.

“Oh,” Crowley echoes. “Well. Yes. You’re beautiful.”

“Oh.” A silence, in which Crowley tries not to bite down too hard on the inside of Aziraphale’s cheek. “In… In what way?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” Aziraphale sighs, and Crowley tries not to cringe at the way his voice makes that particular noise, “There’s beautiful, and then there’s… Other words. Words that one might use to describe someone who was - well - close to them.”

Crowley can feel the world shifting now, he can sense the precipice they’re about to teeter over, and he doesn’t know if he should slam on the brakes or rev his engine. “What kinds of words?” he breathes.

“F-Fetching?”

Crowley would laugh, if he hadn’t just had his heart try and leap into the phone. “You’re fetching,” he says. “So, so fetching, angel, I -”

“I undressed you,” Aziraphale says suddenly, his voice unsteady, “I undressed you and looked at you and I’ve been terrible, Crowley, really properly naughty but not naughty in the funny way that you like, and I feel simply horrid -”

“You want me?” Aziraphale’s mouth gets the words out before Crowley can stop them, and then it’s too late anyway, so he may as well resign himself to combusting on the spot. “You - angel, you - you desire me?” 

“I do,” says Crowley’s voice, but it’s the angel using it who he’s really interested in. “I want you, Crowley, you - you can’t know how much.”

“I might, actually,” Crowley grins. “Angel. Oh, angel. Stripped me down, did you?”

“Well, you’ve still got pants on,” says Aziraphale.

Crowley thinks about the pants he’d had on - and those, those do not count as  _ pants. _ He giggles, and really, what is  _ up _ with that. “You can take them off,” he purrs. “If you’d like.”

\---

Aziraphale’s mouth is completely dry. Out of all the ways he’d envisaged this talk going, this was not one of them. Should they talk properly about this first? Very quickly, before Aziraphale gives way to the temptation drawing close around him?

“I…” he says, unable to form words. “Are you… sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything, angel,” says Crowley. “But there is one condition.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale can’t help the waver in his voice.

“Keep talking to me,” Aziraphale’s own voice whispers through the phone. “Tell me, angel, tell me what you’re doing.”

Aziraphale feels a throbbing start in his cock - in  _ Crowley’s _ cock. “My dear,” he sighs, helpless, “Only if you return the favour.”

_ Crowley feels Aziraphale’s eyelids fluttering in response. He groans and claws at the buttons on the angel’s shirt until they pop off.  _

“Do you always wear so many fucking clothes, angel?” Crowley asks. 

Aziraphale can’t help but chuckle.“Do you always wear so little?” he smirks.

_ Crowley is going insane. It’s the only explanation. In no world would the angel, his angel tease him about his underwear. It just wasn’t… wasn’t possible.  _

_ “Well, that depends,” he says in a low voice. “Have you taken off my… er… pants… yet?” _

“I’m - yes. Oh, Crowley, fuck, you’re beautiful,” Aziraphale says, wriggling out of the thong and becoming entirely overcome with the view of Crowley’s erect cock. “I’m - can I touch you?”

_ Crowley lets out a squeak, clears his throat, and says “Yes.” _

_ He’s gotten Aziraphale’s suspenders and sock garters all tangled in his attempt to be rid of them, so he clicks his fingers and miracles them away. “And… Aziraphale?” _

_ “Y-y-yes?” _

_ Was Aziraphale touching himself? Touching him? Crowley lets out a ragged breath. “Can I touch you?” _

“Anytime, my dear,” Aziraphale breathes. “All the time.” He lets his hand wrap around Crowley’s cock now, and lets out a moan that is far too indecent for any angelic being to have made. 

“I’m, uh… ungh… touching you now,” he says haltingly.

_ “And I - fuck, angel, fuck - I’m touching you.” Crowley can hardly speak around his pleasure. He watches Aziraphale’s hand slide down Aziraphale’s cock and thinks he might actually just combust into a ball of Hellfire.  _

“You’re so good, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers. He strokes up and down Crowley’s cock, letting the phone fall next to him on the bed, using his other hand to run over Crowley’s chest. “I could touch you like this forever.”

_ “Please, angel, please do that,” says Crowley. “I’m - nnnnngk - fuck, oh, ohhhh…” _

_ He’s pumping Aziraphale’s cock through his fist now, the noises in Aziraphale’s throat only serving as kindling to his burning arousal. _

Aziraphale rubs one of Crowley’s nipples experimentally and gasps in delight.

“Oh,” he lets out. “Oh, your nipples - they’re -”

_ Crowley blushes, hard. “They’re, uh, sensitive,” he agrees. _

Aziraphale pinches and rolls the nipple with Crowley’s long fingers, gasping and panting for breath. He remembers vaguely to attend to Crowley’s cock and makes a choked noise from the back of his throat when he squeezes Crowley’s hand around the base.

_ He imagines a different kind of pressure on his cock - Aziraphale, around him, coming apart for him, he’d be red and flushed and debauched so holi-ly. _

_ “One day, angel,” Crowley pants, “I’ll fuck you. Would you like that?” _

Aziraphale imagines it, Crowley taking him, hard, and it’s all he can do not to come right then and there.

“I’d - I’d love that, Crowley,” he says, biting Crowley’s lip so hard he can taste blood. “I’m - ohhhh - I’m so close -”

_ “Come for me, angel,” Crowley gasps, feeling his own release building.  _

Aziraphale strokes faster, faster, and then there is white and black and stars and he comes with little jerks of his hips, and oh, it’s different in this body, yet the same glow, the same warm sunlight shooting through him.

_ Crowley hears the half sobs as his angel comes, gives a few more fast strokes, and then he’s there too, letting out a hiss and arching his back against the bed, something white-hot and beautiful unspooling within him. _

_ His muscles relax after a few moments, the usual languid drowsiness kicking in. _

Aziraphale lets a smile bloom, Crowley’s face a little stiff for this particular expression. “Well,” he says, “That was… good.”

“Quite,” Crowley agrees. He sounds out of it. Aziraphale smirks.

“See you at the park, then?”

Crowley groans some reply and feels himself dozing off to sleep.

Aziraphale smiles to himself, and hangs up.

\---

Somehow it isn’t awkward when they meet in the park. Probably because they had other things to worry about - namely, surviving their trips to Heaven and Hell. Crowley isn’t sure how they manage to smile and laugh and act so bloody  _ normal _ while they’re at the Ritz. Aziraphale, who Crowley knows had a personal hand in hanging the stars, smiles at him with something Crowley can’t define.

Once they’re out of the Ritz, though, it is definitely awkward. Their routine is thrown without the Bentley. Crowley looks around for it when they’re out, feeling a bit lost.

“Come back to mine?” Aziraphale offers, his eyes wide and blue and beautiful. “We can have, er, a spot of tea?”

“Yeah,” Crowley agrees. “Sure.”

They walk as if they have all the time in the world, which, actually, they do. Crowley lets his arm brush Aziraphale’s infinitesimally, shivering at the contact even through his jacket. Just a few hours ago, he had seen that arm, bare, his body, exposed and beautiful… 

Crowley has to bite down on his lip to stop himself from squeaking when Aziraphale takes his hand. He looks straight ahead, sure that it’s an accident, sure that if he does something foolish like ask  _ why _ then this dream will end.

Aziraphale doesn’t let go of his hand, though, not even when he opens the door to the bookshop. Crowley steps inside with him, to find his other hand being taken, and Aziraphale’s body flush against his.

“Crowley,” the angel breathes. “I’m… I…”

Crowley lets his eyes flick down to those lips, soft and plump and so kissable. “Angel,” he says softly. “Do you - do you still…?”

“Yes,” says Aziraphale, and kisses him.

It takes a while for Crowley to remember to kiss back. He is jettisoned into space, a lone satellite floating way out of orbit, black all around him, stars twinkling, just for a moment. Then the stars bloom like flowers, they cluster around him, they become, oh, the light is everywhere and Aziraphale is everywhere and the angel’s hands are twisting into his hair. It’s so  _ right _ and  _ perfect _ and Crowley wants to give him everything, how he  _ wants.  _

He’s beginning to understand the language of their bodies, he thinks, as he brings his mouth to Aziraphale’s neck and worships him. Like a call and response  _ (I ought to say no, no, no sir/ Mind if move in closer?/ At least I'm gonna say that I tried/ What's the sense of hurtin' my pride?) _ , do you want me? I want you, angel, darling, dear, and Aziraphale’s muttering as his hand trembles over Crowley’s collarbone. Will you have me? Can I touch you? Is this alright? And every time it’s Crowley’s turn to answer, he says yes, traces it into the back of Aziraphale’s jacket, pushes it with his tongue into the angel’s mouth. 

Aziraphale hasn’t done very much of this before, Crowley doesn’t think, but that tongue makes up for it. It’s everything he’d dreamed, wet and sliding against the roof of his mouth, devouring him, for Someone’s sake, Crowley needs to take Aziraphale apart before he’s the one begging on his knees.

“Angel,” he murmurs, after a time. It’s dark. When did that happen? They couldn’t  _ possibly _ have been at this for three hours… Well. They could have. Crowley wouldn’t complain. “Angel, I don’t want to rush you, I know it’s all fast, and -”

“Oh, shut up,” Aziraphale says, his eyes glazed and his mouth red and his expression hungry. “Shut up, and make love to me, Crowley.”

Crowley doesn’t move for a second, and then he has to grab Aziraphale by the hips, he has to sweep the nearest desk free of books, set the angel down,  _ push _ him down, and…

Fuck. Crowley is fucked. He hasn’t even taken Aziraphale’s coat off yet, but somehow this image is obscene in its beauty. The angel is panting, his eyes never leaving Crowley’s. The moment of silence stretches a little.

“Okay?” Crowley murmurs.

“More than,” says Aziraphale, grinning down at him. Crowley lets his teeth bare into a wicked smile, and he jumps onto the desk, straddling Aziraphale, his hands pinning the angel down.

“Good. I intend to,” Crowley licks up Aziraphale’s neck, to the back of his ear, “devour you.”

He can feel Aziraphale shaking beneath him, his body has come close now, pressed into the lines of his angel. He sits up, hips jiggling perhaps a little more than necessary - but  _ fuck _ it’s necessary if Aziraphale is going to make that noise - and begins undressing Aziraphale.

The coat comes first, slipping off his padded shoulders, falling to the ground with a whisper. Crowley has fun with the suspenders, plucking at them, making Aziraphale blush, but he takes those off too. Then comes the bowtie. The new one.

Crowley was  _ going _ to take his time, figuring out exactly how the fuck you undo a bowtie, but then Aziraphale moans a  _ hurry up _ and suddenly the material is, once again, ripped by his hand. He freezes, but Aziraphale lets out another moan, wordless this time, and Crowley tosses the shreds to the floor.

_ “Crowley,” _ Aziraphale sighs, “Hurry up, or I’m really going to combust. I need you  _ inside _ me, dear, oh, my dear -”

Crowley stares at the ripped shirtfront that is the result of Aziraphale’s sweet talk. “Oops,” he says, and grins. He loses his conscience entirely when he sees Aziraphale has miracled an  _ undershirt _ on after they swapped back, and takes it with his teeth. 

“I’m not going to have many clothes left, am I?” breathes Aziraphale.

Crowley laughs. “I don’t mind if you don’t, angel.”

Aziraphale’s only reply is to sigh when Crowley starts kissing down his now-bare chest. Those noises he makes, high-pitched, unashamed, little snippets of begging like  _ oh please _ and  _ I need you _ and  _ Crowley!  _ and  _ faster, faster…  _ Crowley thinks he could live on those alone forever. 

But then again, he needs this. Well - he  _ wants  _ it, he  _ wants _ so desperately and now he can, so he bites and sucks at Aziraphale’s perfect stomach until there are teeth marks and bruises blooming across his skin. 

“My -  _ oh _ \- my trousers, dear,” Aziraphale says weakly.

“Mmmm, what about them, darling?” Crowley doesn’t even notice the pet name slip out; it’s second nature in this moment, because if Aziraphale isn’t  _ darling _ when he’s spread out across a table like this, then what is he?

“Off,” Aziraphale demands. “Off, off, they should come off…”

Crowley slips off the table, pulling Aziraphale’s legs so they hug his waist, and bends to nuzzle at his angel’s belt. “Off?” he teases. “Are you sure?”

Aziraphale makes what must be simultaneously the cutest and most obscene noise in the history of Creation, wiggling his hips in frustration. “I’ll do it, if you don’t hurry up,” he mutters.

“Okay, okay,” Crowley grins, fumbling with the belt. He has a moment of  _ oh god oh fuck I’m doing this we’re doing this oh fuck,  _ but it settles down to a manageable hum of general astonishment when he pulls Aziraphale’s slacks down off his person. Crowley miracles the shoes off before they can become a hindrance.

“What about you?” Aziraphale asks, a smile starting to grace his face. “Let me feel you, my love.”

Crowley blinks wide eyes at that particular word, and it’s the split second that Aziraphale chooses to haul him up and kiss him frantically. The angel’s hands are clumsy and desperate on him, and Crowley assists him in any way he can, pushing himself up from the table to let Aziraphale slip his shirt off, climbing further up the angel’s torso so he can tug at Crowley’s jeans.

The jeans, he’ll admit, are too tight for this sort of thing.

Aziraphale, after a few ineffectual attempts, looks at him with a positively devilish expression, seizes the material, and  _ rips. _ A human would never be able to do that.

It turns Crowley on like Hell - well, like Heaven - like Aziraphale. Only Aziraphale could ever do this to him.

With a snap of his fingers, their underwear is gone, and Crowley presses his body to Aziraphale’s. They kiss, messy and desperate, and Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s erection rubbing against his stomach. Fuck fuck  _ fuck fuck fuck. _

Crowley leans back, breaking off the kiss to admire his angel from where he sits on top of him. He smirks at Aziraphale and lets his hands trail down Aziraphale’s chest, lower, lower, until his fingers brush against the base of the angel’s cock and they both moan at the contact. Crowley lets his hand stroke up Aziraphale’s cock. The angel whimpers, whines, keens, his hands digging into Crowley’s thighs, his head thrown back and eyes closed.

He makes the prettiest picture.

Crowley takes his time, his touch slow and wandering, feeling the thick heat of Aziraphale in his hand, on his skin. His other hand has become entwined with one of Aziraphale’s; he squeezes before letting go, and shuffles down the angel’s legs a little awkwardly, reaching underneath, around, to his entrance. He pauses, his hand resting on Aziraphale’s ass (it’s perfect, but he has more important things to be getting on with than flipping the angel over to bite at it), waiting for permission.

Aziraphale’s hands land on his shoulders, and they squeeze. Crowley blinks up at his angel; he’s craning his neck to look at Crowley, his pupils blown wide with arousal. 

“Please,” Aziraphale says. “I need you.”

Crowley slides one finger into Aziraphale, the flesh miraculously relaxed and slick. He feels like - well, like Heaven, except Crowley would rather not think about them right now. Aziraphale’s hips are trembling beneath him, his breath unsteady, and Crowley leans down to kiss him.

It’s not the most graceful kiss, because Aziraphale is dazed and keeps forgetting what he’s doing when Crowley pushes into him. Crowley doesn’t mind, though. He loves Aziraphale sighing into his mouth, biting at his lip desperately, sucking whatever he can get at.

He loves Aziraphale, actually. All of him. Forever.

By the time he has three fingers slowly thrusting into the angel, Aziraphale’s entire body is flushed, and he keeps babbling incoherently. Crowley nips and licks at his ear affectionately. He loves  _ loving  _ Aziraphale, too, as it turns out.

He crooks his fingers  _ just so _ and grins when Aziraphale whimpers, his hands scrabbling at Crowley’s back, nails digging in. Crowley lets the contact leave marks, feeling the pain heat something sharp and delicious within him.

_ “Crowley,” _ Aziraphale whines. “Oh, Crowley, get inside me, please, oh, inside me, now,  _ please -” _

Crowley thrusts in once more with his fingers, letting them scissor in Aziraphale and eliciting another moan, before he pulls out. He sets his knees on the table, Aziraphale’s legs wrapping around his waist, and leans forward to be flush against the angel. With one hand, he pins Aziraphale’s arms above his head, and with the other he guides himself to the angel’s entrance.

Aziraphale’s eyelids are fluttering, and his mouth is open. When Crowley pushes in, Aziraphale’s breath hitches audibly, and his eyes squeeze shut. Crowley stops hearing and starts feeling the warmth around him. Fuck, but Aziraphale is soft. Soft and tight, and when Crowley moves in him he swears it’s the closest to praying he’s gotten in six thousand years.

He’s got Aziraphale pinned to the table, and Crowley sets a slow pace, fucking into his velvet heat, his cheek on Aziraphale’s, their bodies pressed so close, so close. Crowley can feel something changing around them, the harmonies surrounding them starting to play a different key, his endless cry finally receiving a response.

As Crowley fucks - makes love - to Aziraphale, he brings his hands down. Cradles the angel’s face in them. Aziraphale’s hands instantly wrap around him, squeezing him tighter, closer. Crowley draws his head back to better see the angel, to see his face, it’s covered in sweat, and his eyes, sparkling too.

“I love you,” Crowley says, or rather, the words are ripped from him. He doesn’t know exactly what or who makes him say it, only that it is finally inevitable, it has to be in this moment.

Aziraphale’s eyes open properly, they focus on his, and his face lights up. To compare him to the sun would be a crime, for it is written in the Bible that one must not lie. Crowley has no frame of reference for the light which shines from him except for six thousand years of experience; it’s as if he was hidden behind a sun umbrella, the angel has been  _ holding out _ on him, he thinks. This light, now, it surrounds. It pours into Crowley like a drug, like a drug that has become his whole world, a drug around which he orbits forever.

“I love you, too,” Aziraphale says.

It’s everything. It’s irrevocable. And through it all, Crowley can only gasp and pant and keep moving,  _ keep moving, _ clinging to his love, his  _ love. _

He laughs, giddy and helpless. “I love you,” he repeats.

Aziraphale shines brighter. He is starting to actually, really, properly glow. “I love you,” he replies.

Crowley smiles so widely and indulgently that he wonders if his face will change shape for this, if his form will start to meld into something more, because surely he can’t be capable of holding all this, all this feeling. Six thousand years, and he’s only just woken up. 

“Angel,” he says, holding Aziraphale, holding Aziraphale’s gaze. “Angel, angel, I love you, you’re mine, my love, my angel - oh,  _ fuck -” _

He’s close now, and he thinks Aziraphale must be too, if the little stutters in his hips are anything to go by. 

“My darling,” Aziraphale says. His tone is  _ reverent, _ like Crowley is some kind of statue set in overly idealistic marble. “My dearest, my love, my sweetheart, my only, I love you, I love you, I - oh!”

Crowley feels his release uncoiling within him as soon as Aziraphale comes. The angel’s face screws up, and his mouth opens, and Crowley has only seen that expression when he’s deep, deep,  _ deep _ in prayer (but he hopes he can see it one day when Aziraphale is deep, deep, deep in Crowley).

Crowley’s orgasm shoots through him so quickly at first he’s almost disappointed, when the hammer hits. Wave after wave of love and pleasure and something that can only be described as  _ unggdgghjk  _ washes over him, and he buries his face in Aziraphale’s neck, clinging to him as his hips subside their thrusts slowly.

Crowley slowly becomes aware of Aziraphale’s breath against his ear, the angel’s hands stroking gently through his hair, their legs entwined. A  _ snap _ sounds and they are suddenly on something soft and pliable - though not quite as soft and pliable as Aziraphale, of course, Crowley knows now. He looks around, and vaguely recognizes the dusty flat above the bookstore.

“Mmmmmmm,” he says in appreciation of the blanket being pulled over him, the arms cradling him so tenderly. “Mmmm.”

“Oh, my love,” Aziraphale says. “I - should I thank you? Is that something one does?”

Crowley snorts into Aziraphale’s skin. “Not really. Just… Just hold me.”

“Well, of course,” the angel says, and Crowley smiles that ridiculous, wide smile again.

“I love you,” he says again, because he can.

Aziraphale nuzzles against his hair. “I love you too, dearest.”

Crowley tries to wriggle closer to Aziraphale, ignoring all the boring rules of spacetime, and kisses whatever bit of skin he’s nearest to - neck? Collarbone? Wherever they touch, Crowley can feel that same new feeling, the vibrations around them singing something new and beautiful, yet nearly as old as Creation itself. 

_ Something dared us to be this, all those years ago. _ An apple on a tree, an angel on a wall. Love is ineffable, and so is the Great Plan, but in this moment, one doesn’t feel like the universe is such a mystery after all. It’s quite simple, really.

If C loves A, and A loves C, then the other letters don’t really matter. To love is said to be to see the face of God, but there’s not any single face I’d rather see than yours.

My universe.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, here's my other Good Omens fics (and there's always more to come):  
[Armageddon did happen, Aziraphale lost all his memories, and Crowley tries to fix it](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20999561/chapters/49938986)  
[Local Dumbasses Almost Fail to Save World (Again)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20116798/chapters/47697937)  
[another sex oneshot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20578214)


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